It is 2:18 a.m., and the right knee is screaming in that dull, needy way that is not quite sharp enough to justify moving but loud enough to dismantle any illusion of serenity. There is a strange hardness to the floor tonight that wasn't there before; it makes no sense, yet it feels like an absolute truth. The only break in the silence is the ghost of a motorbike engine somewhere in the distance. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. My mind immediately categorizes this as a problem to be solved.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. I didn't consciously choose the word; it just manifested. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
The doubt begins: is my awareness penetrative enough, or am I just thinking about the pain? Or am I clinging to the sensation by paying it so much attention? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I make an effort to observe only the physical qualities: the heat and the pressure. Then, uncertainty arrives on silent feet, pretending to be a helpful technical question. Chanmyay doubt. Perhaps I am over-efforting. Maybe I am under-efforting, or perhaps this simply isn't the right way to practice.
I worry that I missed a key point in the teachings years ago, and I've been building my practice on a foundation of error ever since.
That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. I catch myself subtly adjusting my posture, then freezing, then adjusting again because it feels uneven. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. I feel a knot of anxiety forming in my chest, a physical manifestation of my doubt.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I recall how much simpler it was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." Like a test I am failing in private. I can't stop the internal whisper that tells me I'm reinforcing the wrong habits. I worry that I am just practicing my own neuroses instead of the Dhamma.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
I read a passage on the dangers of over-striving, and my mind screamed, "See? This is you!" The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I had hoped for a consistent sensation that I could systematically note. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I strive for a balanced mind, but I am clearly biased against the pain. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. My limb is losing its feeling, replaced by the familiar static of a leg "falling asleep." I haven't moved yet, but I'm negotiating the exit in my mind. The clarity is gone. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
I am not leaving this sit with an answer. The more info discomfort hasn't revealed a grand truth, and the uncertainty is still there. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.